


just like you

by ghostbandaids



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dead TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dead Wilbur Soot, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Sad, Sad Ending, Scared TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Serious Injuries, That's it, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Traumatized Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, a little bit of hurt/comfort, bow duel, i think, just sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostbandaids/pseuds/ghostbandaids
Summary: Wilbur takes a couple of steps before he starts running, reaching Tommy and pulling him into a hug; Tommy realizes that he’s missed this Wilbur, the Wilbur that practiced aiming a training bow with him, not the Wilbur that forgot how to be himself or the Ghostbur that forgot everything.The afterlife has granted them the kindness of a hug that feels real, warm, even if they’re both dead.“Why?” Wilbur whispers into his shoulder. “Why now? Why couldn’t you wait?”“I didn’t really get a choice,” Tommy answers. “I always said that I would be just like you, you know. Look at us now.”Tommy's always wanted to be just like Wilbur, but it takes dying for him to succeed.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 13
Kudos: 293





	just like you

**Author's Note:**

> will be removed if ccs express discomfort
> 
> just a character study inspired by today's stream because it made me kinda sad. focuses mainly on the bow duel tbh, you'll see what i mean. also it's written in present tense and i didn't edit so the typos will probably jumpscare you
> 
>  **CWs** : permanent and temporary character death (canon respawns), injuries, arrow wounds/arrows

“Stop!” Tommy yells, giggling. “Slow down!”

They’re running along a grassy path near their house, the breeze tousling the wildflowers in the field and their hair as it passes through the forest.

“Speed up!” Wilbur yells with a jokingly impatient tone. He’s promised to help Tommy with target practice because Tommy’s awful with a bow and Wilbur, as his brother, is obligated to help. 

They reach the range and Wilbur grabs an arrow from the sheath, pulling it back on the string and loosing it, barely taking the time to aim. It flies true — straight to the bulls-eye.

Tommy watches in undisguised awe as Wilbur does the same thing over and over again until he’s run out of arrows. Then they walk to the target together to retrieve them. Tommy checks for strays in the thick grass, but they’re all stuck into the target, all on the red center-ring. Wilbur hasn’t missed a single shot.

“It’s your turn now,” Wilbur says, handing him an arrow with stiff, new fletching — it’s made from one of Phil’s molting cycles, which Tommy thinks is kind of funny. 

“Like this?” he asks Wilbur, pulling it back to his ear.

“Turn your wrist a little,” Wilbur suggests, standing behind Tommy and correcting his posture. 

Tommy releases it and the arrow flies into a nearby tree-trunk. Wilbur smirks. 

“It was your bow angle, I think,” Wilbur tells him. “Try again.” But no matter how many times Tommy tries, shooting all the arrows and then picking them up and repeating the process, he can’t get the effortless, perfect shots that Wilbur does. He barely manages to get a couple of them on the target; the rest go into the brush behind it. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Wilbur says as they walk towards home. “It’s not a big deal. You have time.”

“But I want to be like you,” Tommy pouts. “I want to be good.”

“Someday, you’ll be better than me,” Wilbur says, tousling his hair. “Just you wait.”

Tommy doesn’t really want to die for his nation. 

He doesn’t, okay?

He’s a kid, sixteen years old, and it seems like too heavy of a burden when he steps up to face Dream. The count starts, the bow’s heavy in his shaking hand.

He wants to drop it. 

He wants to run. 

He’s not going to do either of those things. Because Wilbur’s standing on the edge of the crowd, eyes fixed on Tommy alone. And Wilbur doesn’t flinch when he starts counting, so Tommy knows that he can’t flinch either. He can’t show weakness, can’t show fear. 

Here’s the thing about being a kid in a war; you don’t have a choice once it starts. What are his options? He stops fighting and he dies, stabbed in the back or starved because no one gives food to those who abandon — and it  _ would _ count as that, even though somewhere deep inside, he’s had the realization that he’s too young, that maybe this shouldn’t be asked of him. 

Or he can keep fighting and he’ll probably die anyway, impaled on the same sword — this time from the front. The only conclusion to the battles they fight seems to be death to one side or another. Tommy should know: he still has nightmares about the searing pain from the harming potions and the bite of the swords that killed him in the button room. 

And  _ sure  _ Wilbur protested when Tommy challenged Dream, the obligatory protesting you do when your brother proposes a duel to show off, to show that he can play a part in the war, but Tommy didn’t miss the way Wilbur’s lips curled up in a smile when Tommy insisted that he would fight. 

Maybe Tommy shouldn’t have gotten angry, ran his mouth a little too much, but what else was he supposed to do? Wilbur was about to lose his country, his everything. Wilbur is strong and courageous and well-spoken. Tommy doesn’t have the same charisma, but he’ll keep talking until his breath runs out to make up for it. 

Wilbur is brave. 

Tommy is not brave. 

But he wants to be. So when he saw a way to win their country back, he took it. Of course he did. He’s Tommyinnit and someday he’ll be as brave as Wilbur Soot. 

Wilbur lets him step onto the boardwalk above the lake. Wilbur hands him a bow. Wilbur  _ smiles.  _ Tommy hasn’t seen a grin like that in a long time; he smiles back. 

When you’re young and still have lives to live, people take you for granted. They don’t realize that fear is an insidious, creeping thing that wraps around your mind regardless of whether you have three respawns or two or one. 

They don’t realize that it’s a lot more terrifying to fear death when you’re sixteen and fighting in a war that you didn’t really understand in the beginning.

Tommy hears the hollow echo of his feet against the wood, feels a light breeze in his hair. And he tries not to think about the fact that he’ll probably die in ten seconds because he’s never been able to aim a bow quite right, regardless of all the times he practiced with Wilbur at his side as a kid. 

_ Make Wilbur proud,  _ he thinks. 

He’s terrified. But Wilbur would be brave and calm, so Tommy forced air into his lungs and lets it out. Takes a step with each number that Wilbur yells.

“Ten paces, fire!” Wilbur shouts.

Tommy turns, fires with Dream in the sights, misses. 

He trips, falling into the lake and feeling the cold against his fingers, the water whispering to him and asking if he wants to be pulled down. 

_ No,  _ he thinks.  _ No, not yet.  _ He swims upwards, heaving his arms until he’s back at the surface, trying to get the bow into his shaking hands, thoughts racing with the fact that Dream’s waiting, aiming. He shivers in the cold and he’s still struggling for the bowstring when he feels the impact. 

“Oh,” he says. Then he repeats himself, a small, sad, “Oh,” as he collapses into the water for the second time, his body too stunned with the piercing pain of being shot in the back to stay upright.

He wishes that Dream would have shot him from the front. 

He dies cold and afraid, so unlike Wilbur would die. Because Wilbur would have killed Dream, and he would have done it without a shred of fear, marched victoriously back to their country with independence. And if Wilbur had somehow gotten shot, he would have propped himself up and smirked as the life bled from him. 

Even in death, Wilbur would have acted like he won.

Tommy’s tears mix with the water of the lake as he dies; it’s a weak death, shameful. He can imagine the frown on Wilbur’s face.

Tommy wishes that he could be like Wilbur, but he’s not enough. 

One second Tommy sees Dream's face, one second he’s yelling, “Stop it, stop it!” in fear and pain, and the next second there’s only a white haze surrounding him. A fog, clouding his senses — the type that surrounds him on all sides, curling around his feet and his fingers and his head. 

He’s no longer in the prison — it’s too bright, too open. 

He knows where he is. He knows  _ what  _ he is. He’s dead, simple as that. 

“Tommy?” a voice asks, unsure. 

“Wilbur?” he replies, turning around. 

It  _ is  _ Wilbur, not Ghostbur, but Wilbur. Clothed in that fraying yellow sweater that he always refused to stop wearing, but this one’s not as ragged as Tommy remembers, and the saturation is much stronger. 

“Why are you here?” Wilbur asks. “Go away, Toms. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Hello, Wil,” Tommy says softly. “Together again, eh?”

“This is a mistake,” Wilbur says, shaking his head. “You’re not dead, Tommy—tell me that you haven’t lost all your lives already.”

Tommy sighs. He’s a bad liar, so he doesn’t even try.

Wilbur takes a couple of steps before he starts running, reaching Tommy and pulling him into a hug; Tommy realizes that he’s missed this Wilbur, the Wilbur that practiced aiming a training bow with him, not the Wilbur that forgot how to be himself or the Ghostbur that forgot everything. 

The afterlife has granted them the kindness of a hug that feels real, warm, even if they’re both dead.

“Why?” Wilbur whispers into his shoulder. “Why now? Why couldn’t you wait?”

“I didn’t really get a choice,” Tommy answers. “I always said that I would be just like you, you know. Look at us now.”

“Dead,” Wilbur says.

“Yes,” Tommy agrees. “And the same. Finally.”

**Author's Note:**

> hmmm let me know what you though? idk I'm honestly still in shock from the stream.


End file.
